Nineteen Years Later, 2022

"Except for the cold December night of 2009, the majority of your memories are depressing. Perhaps it's because they didn't raise their obelisk in my heart till after you died. The walls, the canopy, the abandoned kitchen, the collard leaves on the sheet my mother was sorting, my mother's face, the grim stillness in the weather, the clouds outside, the grave silence-it was all peaceful.

I remember the stillness and heaviness that hung throughout our house the day you died. Everything was bearing down: the walls, the ceiling, the forsaken kitchen, the sorrel leaves on the sheet that my mother was combing, the face of my mother, the bleak seems in the weather.

It was the morning your body was delivered home in a huge van.

Your gaping mouth, your white undershirt speckled with dried, clotting blood, and your ashen skin, particularly those cold arms that had taken the sickly hue of rotten butter; all were painfully vivid. Your half-shut eyes, staring blankly into the void, projected a haunting gaze. On your white undershirt, more dried blood had coagulated into red clusters on this display of grim art that your body was now adorned with. Your pallid skin, especially those icy arms, had an uncanny resemblance to spoilt yellow butter.

What remains etched in my memory is your worn-out countenance, a stark testament to the excruciating battle you fought in your final breaths. Equally poignant were your hollow cheeks, poignant symbols of your defeated spirit as life within you ultimately surrendered to the inevitability of death. Dive into this harrowing tale, for in it lies the power to profoundly move you.

Throughout it all, our mother, calm as a stone, kept repeating the same mantra over and over: 'I am brave. I'm not crying.'

I was dragged into the room where your body was being washed and told to pour a jug of patchouli water on you before being dressed in mausoleum clothes. Your mouth was then filled with three spoonful's of rice after cotton was inserted into your ears and nose, and coins were placed over your eyes.

Each teaspoon is offered with the proviso that it represents much more, wishing the deceased a prosperous afterlife.

You were bound from head to foot with shrouds in seven layers and put in a coffin, which is bound in three places by long strips of cloth, with a mattress under you, a blanket covering your body, and the all your clothes filled in other spaces.

And that bastard of my brother jumped at you, your casket.

I watched him closely. His face etched with sorrow as he gazed down at you. Tears streamed down his cheeks, his body convulsing with silent sobs. How pathetic, I thought, a smirk spreading across my face. Seojin always was a weak little sap.

Father had been a bastard, a cruel human who ruled this house with an iron fist. He beat me, belittled me, made my life a living hell. And Seojin was still crying over the miserable old prick? Inconceivable.
Did he not hate him for separating us? Did he not feel what I did?

I was doing cartwheels in my head. I couldn't be happier if I tried. The son of a bitch was dead, and I was finally free! No more frenzied trips to the emergency room to cover up Father's handiwork. No more frozen dinners alone while he dragged Liam to those pointless baseball games.

Liam would never know the depths of my delight. I had to keep up appearances, after all. Play the part of the bereaved son. But inside, I was dancing on Father's grave.

I slid my arm around Liam's shaking shoulders, pulling him close. "It's okay, bro," I murmured, even as I fought back a giggle. "He's in a better place now."

I remember the snow on the fifth day after your death-it had snowed so heavily that the roads were jammed, there was no traffic, and people had to return to their homes from your funeral walking, traveling miles by foot. Perhaps that accounts for my recurrent depressions in the winter to come. It took me twenty long years to muster a little courage and amass all the remnants of these memories into a little memory, a letter.

But pa, will people believe if I tell them I killed you?"
The words bled, inscribing a certainty.

"What are you writing, Jin?"

...

The Trees were bare, their branches stretching out like gnarled fingers towards the cold, grey sky. The freshly fallen snow blanketed the ground, transforming the world into a desolate and silent place. The air, heavy with a biting chill, seemed to freeze even the smallest breath.

Fresh snow covered the ground, a pristine blanket of white that seemed to both illuminate and obscure the land. The only light that filtered through the heavy clouds was a dim, ethereal glow, casting long shadows upon the frozen earth. It was in this desolate beauty that something extraordinary happened.

The snowflakes, delicate and intricate, danced through the frigid air. But there was one that stood out from the rest. It was an angel, an archangel who had fallen from the heavens above. She had arrived to bring warmth and hope to a world that had grown cold and desolate.

Tobias needed glasses. It wasn't that he couldn't see without them, but what he could see with them. When he wore glasses, his eyes focused so deeply that he could see not only the physical but also beyond. It was like a superpower. But he needed glasses.

Adjusting the butt of his spectacles right atop his nose, he dismissed the last paper of his long shift, making his way out of the stony confines.

The day had begun on a bright note. The sun finally peeked through the snow for the first time in a week, and the birds were singing in its warmth. There was no way to anticipate what was about to happen. It was a worst-case scenario, and there was no way out of it.

The red glow of tail lights indicated another long drive home from work after an even longer twelve-hour shift at the university.
Why were so many cars on the road already? Wasn't his shift already enough?

As he inched forward in bumper-to-bumper traffic, Tobias wondered if this perpetual cycle of work and exhaustion would ever end. His mind wandered to the research project he had been tirelessly working on.

His shift hadn't been horrible, but the constant stream of dubious sheets entering the room meant there was no downtime. He had some of the "regulars" yesternight with new problems and theories that they were sure were going to be right.

Tobias won't absolutely blame the scenario, for he too had been a restless intern in his time until that boy became a reader at Harvard. He would have happily dropped his load on his lovely friend who chugged down the day and helped his brother at the family bakery.

So, he took the other way to drop at the Kim's café. A makeshift road down the highway, all roasty and toasty, but he would rather book a massage later on for himself. It was an enticing proposition, far more appealing than spending yet another monotonous hour behind the wheel.

Fifteen minutes later, he found himself in the midst of a serene winter wonderland. Snow covered the landscape like a soft, fluffy blanket, creating a picturesque backdrop for his impromptu destination.

His eyes glowed in the snowy backdrop as he stepped out of the car, a tired old Chevrolet stood obediently as he gracefully stepped out, feeling the crisp crunch of snow beneath his boots.

The crisp winter air enveloped him, causing his breath to form little clouds that quickly dissipated. The branches and bricks held shiny speckles of shimmering little crystals of snow, and the sunlight emulsified rainbows and dreams.

Hung precariously from a fragile branch, the amber droplet seemed like a universe unto itself, teetering on the edge of fate. While the other droplets around it eagerly grew, embracing their ephemeral existence before eventually dissolving away, this droplet harboured a different ambition. It yearned for more.

So, it waited for the perfect specimen to fly by to trap and capture, which it hoped would eventually be discovered hundreds of years in the future. Bedazzled at the cryptic notion, he deemed it to be a crystal of snow, one that the history would keep close.

Contemplating a little more of the alleged future of the frozen hydrogen dioxide, Tobias pushed open the door of his destination, Kim's café.

Stepping in, his eyes scurried through the untamed howl at the café, his eyes buzzing through until he caught hold of the man. There he was-Jin, the ever-absorbed writer, with his face cupped in his left palm.
His head was bent, lost in thought, while a well-worn notebook lay open on his lap, pages filled with scrawled ink and the occasional spilled coffee stain.

Jin was in a world of his own, mindlessly jotting down every other thing or perhaps nothing at all.

"What are you writing, Jin?"

And just like always, Tobias was ready to scare that man.

_________

Yeah, some age-old family curse now coming into play.

Or just basic ignorance?

We will see.